Ragnarök
#1
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(1803)
Powerplay of Tlanti was approved by Sie.


Much could be said of a woman like Siv. She was, at least on the surface, a fierce believer in her faith and aloof, though not cold, to others. This was what she portrayed, though, and after as much time as she had spent perfecting her act, one would hardly think that there was more to her than that. It was part of the tactic of her survival. There was much depth behind those falcon colored eyes and red-black pelt. Enough so that to truly know her was to drown, for Siv was a woman full of tides and undercurrents, as unpredictable and deadly as a summer storm. Yet no blood stained her hands—she had not needed to touch those who died because of her. Subtlety was her game, and whispering winds of doubt, deception, these were her tools.

So it came as no surprise that she sought out those who would crumble under the savagery of her nature. She looked below the surface, using techniques taught by her witch-sisters. A castle could fall if there was but one soft stone, one point which was overlooked. Siv was patient and she was perceptive, for all magic was this and this alone. What weaving she cast was done in such manners. Reykr had fallen prey to her, and now finished with him, she found nothing to be gained from him. The daughter she so dearly loved was her child alone. No man had aided her thus far, and no man ever would. What would she say, then, if they asked for her father? Odin, she thought, and smiled a bit at the idea. To protect her identity, Siv would lie. She would do everything in her power to keep the girl as hers alone. Why use her cousin’s name, then? Simple, she had reasoned. It was part of her magic, to further bind him to her. It stole his strength and gave it to the dark woman and her peculiar daughter.

Yet far more plans were in motion beyond this. The dark woman wove webs of intrigue throughout those who allowed such a thing. Wisteria, for one, was of particular use. While higher-ranked, the white woman clearly seemed interested in furthering her own ambition. While she had not yet shown outright submission to Siv, when it came to the realm of magic, she was passive. This pleased her greatly. It meant that these people respected magic, even if they did not understand it fully.

So it was that Siv had come to see the woman that had once been known as Crone. She was surprised to see a coyote, and a very mannish one at that. While there was a sharpness in her body, her eyes were distant and her movement rough, ungraceful. In contrast, Siv was a willowy woman of great stature. She did not change her posture around the sickly coyote, and her purple eyes would catch the red ones of the scarred woman as she went about her business. Coming here had been wise indeed.

They spoke of many things, most of which concerned the rituals and rites of the pack. Siv asked about the previous ritual, which she had heard of from others.

“Ah deed not go,” the coyote woman grumbled.

Siv’s ears turned up. She remained carefully still, though her body tensed subconsciously. “Why not?”

The tawny woman sighed and looked up to the darker wolf. Their eyes met; even if she was ill, even if she had remained isolated this long, Tlanti did not forget the packs laws. Her jaw tightened. “What beeznees is it of yours?”

A shadow danced in Siv’s eyes. It was a glimpse of her true self, and one that feared nothing—not this woman, not her sun-god, not the false towers built around her. “Salsola’s business is now my own, Tlanti. Why did you hide from the ritual? Your magic is weak now, like your body. You did that. I can smell it on you. Your kind do not grow sick without cause.” Her sisters had never been ill; they knew herbs and the Hearg did not allow the sick to linger amongst the others. It was almost unheard of within their pack. “Your power has left you, hasn’t it? You can no more face your lords than you can face your gods.”

“You do not know my gods,” the coyote hissed.

“All gods are alike,” Siv challenged, rising. “They demand blood, and they demand faith. One woman is not enough. Where are your gods? Come, have them save you. You’re nothing here anymore. Our lords have seen it. The Hunter and The Dark Lady know you have lost your power. My gods send me here—my gods want me here.” She wondered, briefly, if this was truly a lie. It did not feel like it, now.

The woman’s red eyes burned like coals, but all too suddenly the fire was snuffed out. She dropped them and sunk, defeated, in her own home. Siv smiled thinly. There was nothing in her expression that suggested this was anything but friendly. Oh, what a pretender. The mask was almost flawless now. “I will have your rank. My gods will have this land.”

Below her, the coyote said nothing. Siv, pleased, left her. Her body vibrated with each step, and her breath was fast, heavy. Something electric course through her veins, something ancient and powerful. Had she truly believed what she said? No, she thought, no there had never been such faith even in her home. Then why here?

The dark woman walked away from the coyote’s crumbling tower and moved blindly through the forest. She walked without destination in mind. She allowed herself, for the first time in her life, to fully give into the pull of instinct and the pull of the world. Winter’s breath formed into steam, and starlight blazed against her red-black pelt. Something pulled her, away from the buildings, away from the life, and into the night.

She ran. She did not think she had run without cause since she was a girl. Siv ran throughout the forest of Salsola’s territory, spooking a herd of deer, spooking owls and night birds. Shades of darkness fell from her, raven-wing, toad-eye, deepest night. Mouth agape she breathed in frigid air and ran until her lungs burned from it. She ran all the way to the shoreline and there, finally, stopped.

It hung above her, massively huge. The moon had never been so close to her before. Wide eyed, Siv stared at the thing as if she might be able to pluck it from against the impossible black surrounding it. She panted, heavily, but her heartbeat alone filled her ears, above her breath, above the ocean. Her eyes saw nothing but the moon. A cold wind cut across the sea, but she felt nothing. How could she, so entrapped by the sight before her?

For a long time, for hours, for eons, she stood in silence. Then something peculiar began. The moons face started to wane, to change color and to darken. It did not turn black. No, the moon began to stain red, a deep shade that she could not tear her eyes away from. They had known, she realized suddenly. They had known all along and they had tested her. Petty. Real, she echoed, knowing that the gods could not be omnipotent and aloof. They were just like people, and they felt and breathed and bled and died. Odin had died upon the tree, in agony, and he had learned the nine secrets of the world.

She fell to her knees in the sand but her eyes did not leave the moon. Time went on, indifferent. The face changed—it grew fuller, lost even more white, and it continued on like this until what felt very, very late. Then there was no white, but red, a most terrible and raw red, and below this the glow of purple that was unmistakably the same shade as her own eyes. A choking cry escaped her, finally, and Siv collapsed onto the sand. She began to weep, loudly, and her body wretched as all of the emotions yet bottled up forced their way out and forced their way high as the ocean did to reach the bloody moon.

Another eternity passed. She must have slept, for when she woke the moon had begun to fade into a lightening sky. Siv turned and saw that the east was brightening, and that the sky was turning a fierce orange. The woman pushed herself from the sand, filthy, broken, but now absolutely complete. She stared at this light and then spared a final glance upwards, to the retreating moon. With a grim determination, she lifted one hand.

“I dedicate this land to Odin,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm despite how raw her throat felt. With one sharp jerk, she dug her own nail across her palm. For as thick as the pad was, her claws were equally as sharp. The wound was deep, and the wound began to bleed even as the pain finally registered somewhere within her brain. She closed her hand into a fist and watched as drops fell into the sand. They had sent her here. They had been the reason for all of this.

With her palm bleeding still, Siv began to walk back into the forest. She weaved wildly, knowing the magic was cast by her own hand, knowing her blood would grant the passage to All-Father and his children. Even this walk, this half-mad and staggering walk, was ritual. She walked eastward, until the sun rose, and walked thirsty and exhausted until she reached the river. Then, and only then, did she sink into the shallow edge and allow herself rest. Her palm had stopped bleeding, but the pad was sore. It would be for days, until it closed and healed. This did not matter.

She lingered in the frigid water only long enough to wash away the sand and the scent of blood. Then, refreshed, she trekked southward and made her way to the wonderfully crafted bed where her daughter still slept. Siv, her fur still damp, crawled in under the furred blanket. Her coldness woke the girl, but Siv cooed her into silence by offering one breast. While she no longer produced much milk, it was enough to ease the girl into a familiar pattern. Siv loved the sensation of having the child suckle. She had never known true love until the day she had chosen to save this girl, and now all of her life was dedicated to ensuring she survived. Once finished, the child yawned widely and curled up against a now-dry body. Exhausted, Siv sunk into a deep sleep.

In her dreams, the gods came.


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